


I Had a Dream Last Night

by Pandamerium



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandamerium/pseuds/Pandamerium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had this dream last night. It was a very sad, sad dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Had a Dream Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> Old writing from back in 2009. Nothing graphic, just allusions to situations. It was based on a dream, and very short. I used the archive warnings just in case.

I had this dream last night. It was a very sad, sad dream. It was about an angel. It was not an angel that flew among the clouds in heaven. No, it wasn't even an angel who could fly to begin with. This angel was an angel in every sense of the word: pure white wings gracing the curve of his back, flowing white-silver hair that reached just below his shoulders, but sad, sad eyes, the color of the world. Color of the water, color of the earth. No one could not tell when it was water or when it was earth. Those eyes would watch through a locked window as the rain fell down and tapped the window with a quiet innocence he had deep down in his heart.

 

He had pale skin and his face had a purple bruise blossoming on the right side. His voice was quiet, almost never used, and his arms were marred with red streaks across his wrists and other bruises on his upper arms. Yet still those arms could hug and hold and never let go until they were slapped away by an anger or hatred he knew nothing of.

 

He lived with two guardians, guardians that did not know him, guardians that were not his, a mother and father set-up, but it was not loving. His mother cared for him; his father did not. Wonder how he got those marks on his arms and his face? His mother constantly asked where the angel got hurt, but not a word about it was spoken. Or he lied. An angel was not supposed to lie. But an angel was not supposed to point fingers. An angel took the blame that everyone knew nothing of. His father abused him. Beat him. Struck him. Chained him. Raped him.

 

Yet the angel remained quiet. He did not tell the truth and he lied, as if to use it to make up for what he could not do. He could not cleanse souls the way the mythical angels did. He was as powerless and helpless as a newborn infant was. His wings would not bring healing powers. They were just there; wings, a deformity. He couldn't go to school. His mother tried to get him to be social and speak to her, but he either said nothing or he tried to smile and made up an excuse.

 

That's what it was all about. Excuses.

 

There was no comfort. His mother would hold him if a tear ever trickled past his eyelash, embrace him as lovingly as she could, but there was no comfort. The angel would thank her, but say nothing else. There was always a distraction. Something in the back of his mind. Reminders of nights long past. He did not cry normally. Even if he was alone, with no one to hear him but God, even then he would not allow himself to cry. His face would be set in stone while his heart wept.

 

He did not fight back. He figured it was punishment. He didn't know what he did, but he knew he must've done _something_. He blamed himself. He blamed himself that his mother cried for him at night and his father yelled at her to shut up. He blamed himself that his father found it necessary to cleanse him each night with chains and hatred and his mother was obliviously sleeping in the next room. He blamed himself that both his parents felt so much animosity toward him in their own ways, his father with his torture or his mother – whether she knew it or not – with her tears. There was always something.

 

There were episodes, though. One night after his father was done with him, he had leaned up, putting those shaking, broken arms around his father's shoulders. He was backhanded. His face stung from the blow. Chains rattled. His father glared at him, glaring at his unknown innocence, glaring at the worldly eyes that reflected his vindictiveness, glaring at everything the angel was and hating it. It didn't make a difference. His father was empty. The angel was not. He still harbored that love, that gentleness. His father could not erase that from him. Those eyes of the world would just watch his father every night with sadness matched only by God, watch as he beat him, watch as he stripped him bare of everything that held the angel's resolve. Those eyes did not cry. The angel did not cry. But those eyes filled up with so much sadness, it would've brought anyone else to their knees.

 

Children blame themselves for what their parents do to each other or to them. Divorce, fights, abuse; children blamed themselves for all of that. Children are like the angels on earth, just like this angel who neither cried nor begged nor blamed anyone else for what happened. He blamed himself, just as a child does, for what happened and what continued to happen. The angel still loved and loved, but the only problem was that no one understood that love. He loved his father, his mother, but they did not understand. His mother did not understand why he never cried and she found herself crying all the tears he could not. His father did not understand why the angel never asked him why he abused him so and he found himself asking that question.

 

Those sad eyes could stare out at the rain, watching the sky cry for him, watching God cry for him, but he would not cry. He was not strong, for he couldn't stop anything that happened, but he was not weak, for he could not cry. His heart cried. His soul cried. But those eyes that watched everything, saw everything, did not cry.

 

I had a dream last night. It was a very sad, sad dream. It was about an angel.

 

Then I woke up.

 

And realized that the broken angel who did not cry was me.  


End file.
